


Awake

by daymetthenight (GoldenSkies)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Bath Sex, Drama, Fluff, Infidelity, Love at First Sight, M/M, Plant Magic, Prejudice, Romance, Veritaserum, historical innacuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenSkies/pseuds/daymetthenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy knew that if he hoped to have any sort of career in politics, it was of the utmost importance that he adhere to the intricacies of Pureblood high society. Raised as an heir his entire life, Draco never had to worry much about such things-however, things get complicated quickly after his life is saved by lowly groundskeeper Harry Potter. Historical!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired and influenced heavily by the E.M. Forster Novel Maurice and the subsequent 1987 film, though by no means an adaption. I know hardly anything about England during the early 20th century, and what I do is taken from books, film, and the internet, so there are most likely a myriad of historical errors.  
> Title subject to change  
> * = a line I have pilfered from the book either exactly as it is or with some alterations.  
> Warnings: slash, sexual content, infidelity, prejudice of varying natures  
> Will update every Thursday until it ends, if all goes as planned  
> Thanks ever so much to my beta, Michy Drarry Shipper

“I should have gone through life half awake if you’d had the decency to leave me alone.”

 _-_ E.M. Forster _, Maurice_

* * *

 

# Chapter One

 _It had become_ wretchedly unfashionable to associate with anything Muggle in those days, and just so. The brutes were gaining power in the world, driving wizards to an existence in which magical folk could survive only by hiding their magic. Draco was well-versed in the pureblood maxims, having grown up completely immersed in them, even during his Hogwarts days, back when he was forced to coexist with Muggles. Well, Muggle-borns and half-bloods, if one considered them like creatures, which Draco's father did. His mother, however, generally held different views, in which half-bloods were necessary evils for expanding the Wizarding population, but evils only to be committed by the lower classes. Along these veins of thought, Draco had received explicit instructions to stay amongst his peers in Slytherin, and he had eagerly followed them, having no inclination to intermingle with such creatures from the other houses.

            There was, of course, great hypocrisy in this time, as wizards put great effort into covering all Muggle ties to originally Muggle inventions and customs that wizards had taken a liking to over the centuries. Whilst scorned by the most conservative of the pureblood gentry, cigarettes were quite acceptable and even fashionable among the younger generations, though Draco had never taken a liking to them. He was well aware of this hypocrisy, and considered all those who were not aware quite inept, but publicly rejecting it was out of the question, for if one wanted to do anything of consequence in the Wizarding World, it was of the utmost importance to adhere to the intricacies and convolutions of pureblood high society.

            As it happened, Blaise was experiencing some trouble at the time. His mother was 'found' to have taken a Muggle-born into her bed during her fifth marriage, the one in which Blaise himself was born, and now his legitimacy as heir was being called into question. Draco, of course, did not believe a word of it, though when confronted with the choice between someone else and himself, a Slytherin will always choose himself. Draco's career as a politician was just beginning, and he could not risk the bad press by associating with Blaise. He had owled his friend when he had made his decision, and Blaise had responded agreeably, even going as far as saying he would have done the same thing had he been in Draco's shoes. Draco had been slightly relieved, and assured Blaise that once this catastrophe blew over, things would return to how they always were.

            It also happened that around this time, Blaise was having his twenty-first birthday. Draco had no intentions of going to the small luncheon Blaise was holding in celebration (most wizards had massive galas to celebrate the occasion, but Blaise's circumstances made this unrealistic), and he had told Blaise so. His mother, however, had different designs, as she had always been more liberal than the rest of the family and thought of Blaise as her own son, or at the very least a cousin (which he was, in fact, though many families over). 'Oh, come now, Draco,' she had said. 'You and Blaise have known each other since childhood. You really ought to go.'

            'Mother, I cannot afford to, what with the political climate being what it is at the moment, and my reputation being so important to my future career,' he had tried to explain, but she would have none of it.

            'Take Astoria,' she had suggested. 'You've done so little with her lately, only dinners at the Manor or their Estate, and tea on the weekends.'

            'I don't need advice on how to treat my own fiancée,' Draco then replied. 'And so far I have gotten no complaints from Astoria herself.'

            'What a surprise,' Narcissa had said with a wry smirk, and Draco had gasped and laughed despite himself.

            'Mother, you're going to grow old and bitter that way.'

            'Oh, don't spoil my fun, darling, we are only going to be living on our own together for a few weeks longer, and by the time Astoria becomes lady of the house, you shall find yourself missing my droll commentary.' Draco had pretended as though this was so, but that still did not deter her. 'Now, owl Blaise. He's your friend, for Merlin's sake!'

            He had considered, once more, trying to explain the situation to his mother, but decided that agreeing with her was best, and really, it was one birthday party with a friend he had known all his life. He supposed he couldn't be slighted for that alone. So he had owled Astoria, offering her an invitation to the occasion (her reply was swift--'I would most enjoy it, thank you for thinking of me', as though he had had another choice) and then Blaise, who had not sounded bitter at all toward the sudden (but brief, Draco was sure to make clear) change of heart.

            So Saturday morning, Draco reluctantly dressed for the occasion and received Astoria in the parlour, where they Flooed to Blaise's arm in arm.

            They were met in Blaise's own parlour by a grey little elf who obediently took their cloaks. 'This elf's name is Wimby,' the elf reported, 'and may the Sir and Miss be welcome to call on Wimby whenever they likes.'

            'How unfortunate a name,' Astoria commented lightly as they made their way from the parlour to the drawing room. 'Promise me, Draco, that when we get our own house elves we shall pick more charming names.'

            'Of course.'

            Blaise, now alone without his mother, had only one elf, a relic from when the Zabini name was powerful in Italy, where his father had lived and nearly ruled. The rest of Blaise's servants were human. Upon coming into Blaise’s house hold for the first time, Draco had tried to expostulate against this notion, explaining that while elves were a once-and-done sort of deal, humans required wages, and yet Blaise had insisted on keeping a staff. 'Elves repel me,' he had said. 'They are ugly and squeaky and get under one’s feet.'

            'I suppose, but they are also much more obedient and much more efficient.'

            'There is, of course, the fact that I now live alone and have no one to talk to,’ Blaise then murmured grudgingly.

            Draco had laughed at that. 'You must be in quite a horrible place to desire contact with the lower classes.'

            'There shall be no Muggle-borns, of course,' Blaise had sniffed, somewhat defensively. 'It is bad enough that I had to see them in school, and now see them in the streets, in the shops and even serving in the businesses I frequent.'

            'Appalling, yes truly,' Draco had agreed routinely, and then went on, 'Do whatever you see fit, I suppose, but mark my words, Blaise, you shall be in want of elves in a week.'

            It turned out to be one of those few instances in which Draco was wrong, as it had been two years since then and Wimby remained the only elf serving in the Zabini Estate. However, now that Draco was thinking about the whole affair more thoroughly, he realised that it was a rather Muggle thing of Blaise to do, and wondered how his friend felt about it now that his blood lines were being called into question. 

            'What drab hues,' commented Astoria, breaking Draco from his reverie. The hallway was painted a dark blue-ish-grey and all the frames were wrought from what appeared to be iron. The portraits all wore blacks and browns and blues that contrasted severely with their pale countenances. Hardly any of the portraits were as dark as Blaise and his mother, yet Draco couldn't fathom why Madam Zabini kept so many portraits of her many husbands' relatives. 'How frightfully depressing.'

            'Blaise's mother was fond of dark colours,' Draco explained.

            'Perhaps because she was in mourning half her life,' Astoria deadpanned, and Draco interrupted his chuckle with a cough.

            The drawing room was a casual affair, pretty and sunlit, and most importantly, it had two large, glass double doors that led to the massive lawn behind the house. Draco led Astoria through the doors, held open by a servant girl, and walked onto the grass, which was perfectly cut and exceptionally green. The yard was bordered on two sides by numerous trees trimmed meticulously into the shapes of different magical beasts, a small opening made to lead to the rest of the grounds, and the left side was made of stone. Beside the stone wall, there was a large weeping willow, and beneath the willow there stood a table occupied by Blaise's various friends that remained loyal to him even in this time of controversy.

            On the lawn there was a young boy who could have only belonged to Montague, the only one of their inner circle to have a child, and a dog twice the child's size, which belonged to Nott, who had always been fond of the beasts for some inconceivable reason.

            'Malfoy!' Blaise called when he caught sight of his friend. 'Ah, and Miss Greengrass the younger.' He came up from his seat as they walked across the lawn and met them at the edge of the shade. 'Glad you could come, mate, quite glad indeed.'

            'I would not miss it for the world,' Draco said wryly, and Blaise laughed at the irony as he shook his hand. There were many things that could be said of Blaise, but a lack of humour was not one of them.

            Blaise then turned to Astoria. 'What a joy it is to see you again, Astoria.' He took her fingers in his hand and kissed them politely.

            'Likewise,' Astoria replied.

            Blaise led them to the table and Draco scanned the guests. At the table sat Montague, his wife, Tracey, Nott with Pansy, and Astoria's spinster of a sister, Daphne. Daphne was, admittedly, the same age as Blaise and Draco, but her glaring lack of husband, or even prospect of a husband, was a constant source of gossip. It was not that she was averse to men; simply that she had no inclination to settle down with one, which was unreasonable and strange for many reasons. She lived on her own, which served only to stir more gossip, in a small estate she had inherited when her mother's grandfather had passed away three years ago.

            Pleasantries were exchanged to the annoyance of Draco, who never enjoyed sitting through them, and he took a seat beside Blaise, on his right. From there, it went Astoria, Daphne, Pansy, Tracey, Montague, and Nott. To the great amusement of the circle of friends, Nott and Pansy could hardly stand to be beside each other for more than a few minutes, hence the odd seating arrangements. Blaise, Montague, and Draco often joked about the name of the pair’s prospective daughter--Miracle, because it would have been one to conceive her.

            'I hope you don't mind too terribly that we started lunch without you,' Blaise said. 'Pansy was complaining quite viciously against your lack of punctuality and we thought your irritation would be suffered better than her wrath.'

            'I do not blame you for that,' Draco conceded. 'You will find no irritation from me.'

            'Miss Abbott, if you would procure another cup of tea for Mister Malfoy and Miss Greengrass, and--would you like wine, Draco?'

            'I suppose I wouldn't mind a drop,' Draco said, slightly startled when Miss Abbott, the serving girl, seemed to suddenly Apparate behind him and curtsy.

            'Merlin, Blaise, are they always like that?'

            'Like what?'

            'Invisible.'

            'The good ones know how to make themselves... blend in,' Blaise said. 'Some even use Disillusionment charms, so they can keep out of view while still being perfectly able to jump in whenever we may need assistance.'

            The serving girl returned with the tea and wine in hand, placing them delicately on the table. Draco took a sip of his before asking, admittedly curious, 'Do you allow them their wands?'

            'For a small number of things. There are restrictions as to what spells they may or may not use on the grounds, and those who disregard them shall be dismissed immediately.'

            'Has it happened yet?'

            'No, not yet, though I keep a sharp eye on them.'

            'How many do you have?'

            'I don't _have_ them,' Blaise said. 'I don't own them the way you would a house elf. They are under my service.'

            'Yes, yes, alright, how many do you have _under your service_?'

            'One cook, two maids that attend to the household chores and the guests, when I have them, a valet who is currently attending to some financial matters, and a groundskeeper, whom I hired not too long ago, as a matter of fact. Whatever is left is done by Wimby.'

            'A good elf,' Draco commented pointedly to his friend.

            'I suppose, but don't get that look in your eye, Draco, I shall not be swayed. If you must know, I've become fond of my staff. They have a sense of humour and talk to me in a way that Wimby is terrified to.'

            'They _talk_ to you?'

            'Occasionally. The maids, not so much. But the cook is a rather friendly fellow and my groundskeeper is amiable enough, if a bit timid.'

            'You ought to get married, if it's company you're seeking.'

            'Perhaps, but that is impossible at the moment, as you know, and there are so few ladies left in Britain who hold the same status as us.'

            'Go abroad,' Draco suggested. 'You still speak Italian, do you not?'

            'Yes, though I doubt anyone of our sort would welcome me there. They are still quite prejudiced against my mother and all of her brood, though I can't imagine why,' he said, somewhat acerbically.

            'Speaking of which, I don't see a single one of them attending.'

            'Yes, well, none of them wanted to be seen with me at the moment, except for Maggie, bless her, who was otherwise engaged.'

            Maggie was three years older than Blaise and born from his mother's third marriage to a politician from the Irish Ministry of Magic. She was, by far, the most agreeable of Blaise's half-siblings and Draco was a tad fond of her. 'How unfortunate.'

            'Quite. Anyway, I thought I ought to mention that Nott, Montague and I are engaging in a pick-up Quidditch match to-morrow. No doubt Daphne shall try to butt in, as she does every game. You are, of course, welcome to join us, though I quite understand if you decide not to.'

            Draco frowned. 'I shall have to think on it.'

            'Do, please. Your presence is missed,’ Blaise said lightly, but the implication was unmistakeable.

            Their conversation turned to politics, by which time they involved Montague and Nott. Montague was clever where Nott was educated, and the pair of them made good partners for such a discussion. All the while, Draco's hand lay over Astoria's, who was chattering quietly with the other women.

            'Odgen must be stepping down from the Wizengamot quite soon,' Nott was saying. 'There is too much controversy around his inclination toward half-bloods and Muggle-borns. He has been blatantly rejecting the rules of high society for the past decade, and I am quite eager for the day when he is sacked.'

            'What an amusing suggestion,' Montague said haughtily. 'Not a chance, Theo, Odgen is too respected by the masses. It would cause too great an uproar if he were to be removed.'

            'Well I did not say removed, did I? They would have him step down himself.'

            'Despite what we may wish, the common people are much smarter than they appear, and at the same time willing to believe whatever their comrades say, trusting as they are. The whole of London’s worth of them would sniff out such a move in less than a day,' Blaise interjected. 'The chances of Odgen stepping down are as slim as Draco and Pansy eloping in America.'

            Draco wrinkled his nose at the thought while Montague laughed.

            'Did you hear that, Pans?' Nott said. 'This fellow dares to impugn your good name!'

            'Oh, do shut up, dear,' Pansy replied without look up from her conversation. 'You are making more of a fool of yourself than you do naturally.'

            Montague hooted uproariously and Draco barely restrained a smile. 'It's a wonder you two haven't tried for a child yet,' he said.

            'It's not for lacking of trying,' Nott muttered sourly, and then yelped suddenly, clutching his face.

            'You act as though I don't have ears, love,' Pansy said from across the table, tucking her wand back into her robes, and they all laughed.

            'Blaise, dear,' said Tracey through the break in conversation, 'Pansy was telling me about the roses you are growing in the garden. Could I perhaps see them?'

            'Of course,' Blaise said congenially. 'Do not worry yourself with getting up, though, I shall have a bouquet brought to you. Miss Abbott, please go and tell Mister Potter to gather a bouquet of roses for the Lady Montague.'

            'Yes, Mister Blaise.' The girl curtsied and withdrew.

            'Potter, did you say? Now there is a name I haven't heard in a while,' Montague commented.

            'Yes, well, they did fade, didn't they? That's what happens when you support wizard-Muggle liaisons,' Nott said. 'And then there was that trouble with the assassin...'

            'Both of them killed in one night, how utterly dreadful,' Astoria said, clicking her tongue.

            'Yes, well, the Potters had always had pro-Muggle ideas, and I suppose the radicals decided it was simply too much when Mister Potter married that Muggle girl.'

            'She was not truly Muggle,' Tracey said. 'Muggle-born, wasn't she?'

            'Well, it's all the same to the radicals,' Blaise interjected.        

            'And all the same to me, in my humble opinion, though that's no excuse to go killing someone in any case,' Montague said.

            'Anyway, their son survived somehow,' Blaise said. 'And that old bat Dumbledore became involved. Sent him to live with the Muggles on his mother's side, where he supposed Potter would be safe from the radicals. Of course, Dumbledore died nearly a decade ago, and the Potter boy had no idea he was a wizard until the Ministry found him, nearly ready to be committed into a Muggle sanatorium.'

            'The poor dear,' Tracey said sympathetically.

            'Yes, well, he is just about our age now, and I found him in Diagon Alley, working for the Weasleys.'

            They all sniffed at this, of course, for the Weasleys were a lower class of pureblood, one that dabbled in the Muggle world much more than could ever be proper.

            'I saw him moving crates, you see, massive crates packed with cauldrons, and I realised that he was not using a wand at all. I had no idea who he was, then, but I decided instantly that I needed that sort of power in my household, under my command. A rather superficial reason, of course, but I hired him as quickly as I could--he was quite fond of the Weasleys, though I can't imagine why.'

            'What risk, Blaise!' Tracey said, aghast. ‘Suppose he was slow or impudent, what would you have done then?'

            'I would have sent him to do some other, menial task that would drain him to compliance, but as it happens I was quite lucky. He is hardworking, obedient, and precise. Even a tad artistic. In fact, he did all the trees you see before you. Every design is his and carried out by him.'

            'Quite marvellous,' Astoria said.

            'Mm, that's what I thought. And he has a way with plants. They flourish under his care in a way that I have never seen.'

            'Perhaps it is his magic they're drawn to,' Montague suggested. 'Plants are rather receptive towards powerful magic.'

            'That may be,' Blaise conceded. 'Anyway, I'm thankful for him. And here he comes now!'

            Draco looked up to see a man, not much younger than himself, walking towards the house with a large bundle of roses in his hand. Potter could not have been much shorter than Draco, and he had frightfully unruly black hair that twisted and twirled in all sorts of directions, more bird's nest than hairstyle. Beneath his black locks, his eyes shone a piercing, unnatural green. Upon first sight, there was a queer reaction in Draco's chest, a sort of twinge that he could not place, and he blinked and looked again. Potter wore simple clothes--a roughly-made jacket, shirt, trousers, boots--and yet in that moment he seemed finer than any of them at the table.

            Draco coughed and looked away, suddenly and unbearably mortified with his reaction. Such thoughts ruined marriages, ruined careers, and he was appalled at himself for even brushing the idea.

            'What a fine creature,' Daphne said as Potter passed the Montague child on the lawn. Little Montague got up from the grass and followed the groundskeeper, dragging the dog along with him. Astoria swatted her sister with her glove.

            'Don't be coarse, Daphne,' Astoria admonished. 'He's beneath you.'

            'That doesn't mean I cannot appreciate him.'

            The Montague boy tugged on Potter's trouser leg and said something. The groundskeeper stopped and looked to their table for direction.

            'Tom, do leave the man alone,' Tracey called to her son.

            'No, dear, let the boy speak,' Montague said.

            Potter knelt down before the child and words were exchanged. Draco and the others watched on with curiosity.

            A few more moments passed and then Potter smiled widely, causing Draco's heart to stutter distressingly in his chest. _Get a grip on yourself, man!_ he chided himself, distraught. These unnatural reactions were ghastly on their own, but Draco would be damned if he let them show. They all watched as Potter handed the Montague boy the bouquet.

            He abandoned the dog, who looked quite relieved at this, and toddled over on his short little legs and walked around the table to his mother. 'What've you got there, Tom?'

            'You see Mum, it, it went like this,' said Tom matter-of-factly. 'The mister was walking with this bouquet in his hands and I saw it, didn't I, and I thought... I thought to m-myself Mum would quite like flowers. So I called him and I asked him, “say, sir, where... er, where are you going with those flowers?” And he says, well he says to me, “to Lady Montague, little fellow!” And I thought, I'm a Montague and Mum is a lady. So I asks him,'--'Ask,' Tracey corrected--'I ask him, “if you please sir, could I take the, the er, the flowers to Lady Montague herself?” So here they are. The mister picked them out, but I delivered them to you,' the boy said, finishing his tale with a proud smile.

            'Quite right you did, love.' Tracey took the roses--they were all white--and smelled them delicately. 'They really are lovely, Blaise!' she said when she emerged.

            'Thank you, Tracey. That'll be all, then, Potter. Do continue with the gardens, won't you please?'

            'Right away, Mister Blaise,' Potter said, and Draco nearly shivered at the sound of his voice. Surely it was a sin for any man's voice to sound like that? Potter inclined his head towards his master and then, just as he was turning back towards the gardens, his eyes met with Draco's.

            Draco nearly gasped--they were so, so green, intense and soft at the same time--when there was a sudden sound, coarse and loud and grating. Draco looked up and cried out as he saw a massive portion of the stone wall behind them tumble off the side, falling toward them. Time seemed to slow down, and yet Draco intrinsically knew there would not enough time for him to shield them, not with a stone that large and his wits completely fled, so he lunged for Astoria, shielding her body with his, and then waited, waited for the large chunk of stone to crash into his back, slice his shoulder blades, cave his head in, rend his body into two--

            'E-e-excuse me,' said a rough voice through gritted teeth. Draco, realising he was still alive and uninjured, slowly straightened, and saw the others do the same. His eyes turned back to Potter, whose hands were outstretched and shaking with effort, his face red and scrunched up from chin to forehead. 'If the good sirs and misses could p-please step away from the t-t-table I'd be... most obliged--'

            Draco looked up to find a great hulking hunk of rock and various debris hovering precariously directly over his head, and immediately grabbed Astoria--who was crowing in surprise--by the hand, leading her away while the rest of the party followed suit. When they were all safely away from the table, Potter finally released his magic with a great cry of effort, and the stones crashed onto the table and the chairs Draco, Blaise, and Astoria had been sitting on not moments before. That entire side of the table was in splinters, no piece of it larger than his hand. He swallowed as he imagined the outcome had he still been sitting there when the rocks fell.

            'Merlin and Morgana,' Tracey gasped, and that seemed to break the spell of silence that had held them all captive.

            'Good show, Potter!' Montague barked, turning toward the groundskeeper. Draco turned as well, and saw that Potter was bent over his knees and breathing very heavily, as though he had just run a race. When Montague extended his hand to the man, Potter straightened with a gasp and then clasped Montague’s hand calmly, as though nothing of importance had happened at all.

            Meanwhile, the two serving girls appeared out of nowhere, flitting from person to person to ensure that they were alright.

            'Miss Abbott,' Blaise said, 'Do fetch Mister Snape from Gringotts. Tell him we need his expertise. Though it's very unlikely, I'd like to be sure that this was a mere accident and not a plot against my well-being. You may Disapparate off the grounds.'

            'Very good, sir,' Miss Abbott said, and then disappeared.

            'Tom?' Tracy was saying in the background, clutching her son by the shoulders. 'Tom, are you quite alright?'

            'I'm fine, Mother,' the boy replied earnestly. 'Mister Potter saved us!'

            'He saved our lives,' Draco parroted disbelievingly, still trying to regain his breath.

            'Yes, quite so. Thank you ever so much, Mister Potter,' Astoria said, leaving Draco's side to approach the groundskeeper herself. She eagerly took one of his hands in both hers and held it firmly. 'Thank you a hundred times over.'

            'See, all, I knew it was a good idea to hire him,' Blaise said, now grinning from ear to ear. He clapped Potter on the back. 'Quite good of you, Potter, thank you.'

            'It were nothing, sir,' Potter said, looking red and self-conscious.

            'Draco, dear, we must find a way to repay him.'

            The words were out of Draco's mouth in a second, slipping out without his permission: 'Why don't you spend the weekend at the Manor as my personal guest.' He regretted them at soon as they flew from his mouth--how could he invite this man into his home when his mere presence risked his career?--but found he could not take them back. 'If that's alright with you,' he added, towards Blaise.

            'I'm sure my roses can survive a few days without him,' he conceded.

            'And a hundred galleons from Daphne and me, of course,' said Astoria.

            The others began to offer their own rewards, and Draco turned to Blaise.

            'Have him Floo over for tea Thursday, and I'll send him back Monday morning, how does that sound?'

            'Perfectly alright.'

            'You're too kind, sir’s and misses.' Potter was stared at the ground rather determinedly, red all over.

            They all began to protest profusely.

            'Not at all, Potter, not at all,' Draco said. And despite his better judgement, he stepped forward and offered his own hand. 'Thank you, truly.'

            Then Potter took Draco's hand, and it felt as though the ground had slipped out from underneath his feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quidditch time :))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, many thanks to my beta MichyDrarryShipper

_There were no_ spoken prejudices against that sort of behaviour or disposition in pureblood society, though this was the case simply because it was impolite to talk of such things. Draco was sure that such relations existed in the Wizarding world, but no one dared acknowledge them, and especially not amongst the aristocracy, as it was built with such focus on blood lines, blood purity, and family. Relations of _that_ sort were impractical and unnatural, for they bore no heirs. Draco himself had never felt any urges of that kind in his entire life, and he had grown up in a dormitory full of boys the same age as he, and so was completely baffled at the sudden onslaught of feelings towards such an untouchable being. While he definitely didn’t fancy himself in _love_ with Astoria—very few halves of any pureblood couple ever did—he was quite fond of her, and never had any trouble appreciating her at an aesthetic level. His first thought, after his head was cleared, was of course, that a love potion or some like sort of spell was at fault. However, it would not do to accuse Potter of such treachery if there was still a significant probability that he had not committed it, especially after Potter’s skilful rescue. So Draco decided to join Blaise and the rest for Quidditch the next day, against his better judgement. Perhaps he’d get to see the man again, and either way, he’d inquire as to Potter’s character.

            As one slight on his reputation forgotten in the prevention of another, Draco owled Blaise that night to accept his invitation for Quidditch. Afterward, he spent much of the evening by the fireplace in the drawing room, turning the events of the afternoon over in his head until they were all he could see when he closed his eyes. Draco found Potter's searing glance just as memorable as the sheer terror that had struck him when he had thought he would die.

            Presently, Astoria was at her own family home, attending to something or other, but just as Blaise had predicted, Daphne had shown up at the Estate, demanding to play. She was quite good, Draco would admit, but none of the others seemed so inclined, and therefore it took many minutes for her to convince Blaise, Nott, and Montague to allow her to play.

            When they had finally conceded, Nott threw his hands in the air and sighed in exasperation, a dramatic gesture that was quite common for him. 'We are now odd in number,' declared he. 'So I suppose we shall have to rotate…'

            'Nonsense,' Blaise said. 'I’ll call Potter. I imagine he’s finished with his chores by now, and so his joining us shan’t hurt anyone.’

            Blaise called on his serving girl, who was sent to tell Potter to meet them at the Quidditch shed, and then they all were off, crossing the lawn and stepping onto the pathway that led to the Quidditch pitch that Blaise kept behind the garden. It was not regulation size, but rather decent nonetheless, and Draco never failed to marvel at it. The Manor did not have a Quidditch pitch, as it had been built in a time before Quidditch was a sport acceptable for their class to play, and simply flying, while exhilarating under the proper circumstances, was not the same as playing Quidditch.

            'I trust you did bring trousers for the occasion, Daphne?' Nott said, somewhat caustically.

            'What do you take me for?'

            'I just thought I’d check, in case there were any chances of you being unable to play.'

            'Draco, you ought to jinx him. Defend my honour.'

            'Me? Why me, out of all of us here?'

            'Obviously it’s because I’m Astoria’s sister and Astoria is your fiancée.'

            'How about we compromise and simply give him a good thrashing on the pitch?'

            Daphne looked quite dissatisfied but didn’t say another word.

            They arrived at the broom shed and began to change, creating a curtain to separate Daphne.

            'Say, Blaise,' Draco began as he pulled on his Quidditch leathers. 'What sort is that Potter fellow? And I don’t mean in terms of obedience or any of that. Is he clever, would you say?'

            Blaise thought to himself. 'Well, I suppose, in a competent way, but not awfully clever, not like you and I, and not nearly as educated, which is to be expected.'

            'You said he’s very powerful.'

            'Quite, as you saw yesterday.'

            'Is he powerful in, say, other branches of magic?'

            'Well, I don’t suppose so. I’ve only ever seen him do charms. Though I doubt he’s a champion Duellist or a Master Potioneer, if that’s what you’re asking.'

            'I see.'

            It didn’t rule out the love potion theory, though it did make it much less likely. And there were other ways to make a person fall in love with you. Magical aphrodisiacs, enchantment spells...

            'I think I should like to see Potter on a broom,' Montague said. 'He has the build for it. Have you ever seen him ride?'

            'On Sunday he has the mornings off and flies to Diagon Alley to meet with his friends. He seems capable enough, but other than that, I can’t say I have.'

            'Then this ought to be fun. Let’s have it Draco and I, you and Montague, and… we’ll put Daphne on your team and Potter on ours. One wild card per team.'

            'You have seen me play!' Daphne cried from behind her curtain.

            Nott did not reply. 'A Firebolt for me, I think.'

            'One for me too, please, Theo,' Montague called, lacing up his boots.

            'I was always partial to the Nimbus series,' Draco commented. 'And one for you, Blaise?'

            'Yes, if you please.’

            There was a knock on the door.

            ‘You can come in, Potter,’ Blaise called, and the door opened.

            Draco had braced himself, but that still did not stop his breath from catching at the sight that greeted him. Potter did not look all that different from how he had the day before, robe-less in a plain shirt and coarse trousers, but today his cheeks were red from exertion, no doubt having just finished his chores and then racing to the pitch at his master’s command, and his hair was even more unruly than before. He looked too alive to be real, his vitality as surreal as a daydream. Draco looked away hurriedly, lest the other wizard caught his abominable staring.

            ‘We’ve already picked teams,’ Blaise explained to Potter. ‘You’ll be with Malfoy and Nott.’

            Potter’s gaze fell on Draco, and a docile smile passed over his face. ‘Good afternoon, Mister Malfoy and Mister Nott.’

            ‘Potter,’ Nott said absentmindedly as he finished attaching his shin braces. Draco took another moment to reply, as all the moisture in his mouth had mysteriously evaporated.

            ‘Potter,’ he managed at last, and perhaps it was just his imagination, but Potter’s smile seemed to widen almost imperceptibly.

            ‘Get ready quickly, Potter,’ Blaise said. ‘We’ll be beginning in a few moments.’

            ‘Have you ever played three-aside?’ Montague inquired.

            ‘Yes, sir.’

            ‘Have you ever played with proper teams?’ Blaise asked.

            ‘Yes, sir.’

            ‘Really?’ Blaise said.

            ‘Twice, with the Weasleys when they had enough.’

            Nott snorted under his breath. ‘I suppose it wasn’t much of a game, then, was it?’

            ‘Actually, nearly all the Weasleys were on the Gryffindor House team while they were at Hogwarts,’ Potter replied, and Draco’s lip quirked at the subtle defiance.

            ‘Right you are, Potter,’ Blaise said. ‘I remember playing against them.’

            Nott grunted, but did not reply.

            ‘You remember playing, don’t you, Draco?’

            ‘Vividly.’

            Potter’s gaze flickered towards Draco and a blurred, hazy heat climbed slowly up his bones. He twitched, trying to shake himself of the sensation, but was unsuccessful.

            ‘Are you finished, Daphne?’ Nott asked by way of diffusing the tension he’d created.

            ‘Are you?’

            ‘Potter’s just got the last of his braces to strap on.’

            ‘Potter’s here?’

            ‘Oh, don’t pretend as though you haven’t been listening in,’ Blaise said. The curtain that separated them vanished and Daphne appeared, looking like some sort of war goddess in her full Quidditch regalia, magnificent broom perched casually over her shoulder.

            ‘I’ve been ready for simply ages,’ she drawled. ‘It was about time you boys finished up.’

            ‘Sorry for the delay, Miss,’ Potter said politely, despite his rough accent.

            Daphne smiled. ‘At least we have one gentleman.’ The way her eyelids drooped slightly, eyelashes nearly brushing her sharp, high cheekbones, had Draco thinking back to her words the day before—‘What a fine creature’—and left him strangely piqued. In a moment, he identified the emotion. It was jealousy, and the revelation was startling, especially when it was so unfounded. Daphne was notorious for being such a dangerous flirt, but she was also notorious for her status as an eternal maiden. She refused to see suitors and had annulled her parent’s one attempt at an engagement. It seemed as though Daphne was determined to never attach herself to any wizard, and so her coquettish behaviour towards Potter meant nothing. And besides, Potter did not deserve his jealousy. Perhaps it sounded coarse and harsh to word it as such, but it was the truth—Potter’s status was well beneath his, and he should not have even caught Draco’s attention for as long as he had, or caused such emotions. Blaise’s testament had made a love potion or an enchantment an unlikely possibility, but Draco could think of little else. There had to be some way to find the truth… the truth…

            Veritaserum, Draco thought suddenly. He had made Veritaserum only twice before, once in school and once afterward under tutelage of a Potion's Master at the apothecary in Diagon Alley, and had done well on both accounts. Surely he could do it again. And he remembered that, while being extremely complicated, the potion did not need nearly as long of an incubation period as most other potions of its calibre required. It was not like the Polyjuice Potion, which required nearly a month. No, Veritaserum could be finished with maximum potency in a matter of a week. And it just so happened that Potter would be in his house as a guest in just a week’s time, how fortuitous—

            ‘Draco?’

            The blond’s head snapped to attention to find the entire room staring at him. He flushed and looked away immediately. ‘I apologise. I’m afraid my mind was somewhere else.’

            ‘Focus, Malfoy,’ Nott said from beside him. ‘This is Quidditch. Very serious matter.’

            ‘Would you like me to carry your broom, Miss Greengrass?’ Draco heard Potter say behind him.

            “ _True_ gentleman,’ Daphne then went on to sniff, and Theo sneered in return.

            ‘We simply must beat her,’ he said under his breath. ‘What do you suppose her mother would say if she witnessed such insufferable behaviour from her darling Daphne?’

            Draco elected not to answer—Nott was always insufferable when his mood turned sour—but that didn’t seem to deter his friend, who simply muttered to himself.

            ‘May the best team win,’ Blaise said good-naturedly as they began to walk out of the shed and onto the lawn, towards the pitch.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Draco found himself keeping track of Daphne and Potter. Daphne continued to flirt horrifically, and Potter, no doubt surprised at all the attention, had turned a bright red, his eyes downcast. Eventually, Draco’s ridiculous emotions made watching their interactions too painful to witness, and so he turned back to Theo, who was prattling on uselessly, as he was wont to do.

            The pitch was perfectly maintained, the grass a vibrant green that waved in unison with the slight breeze of the morning. Not a blade was out of place, and not a weed could be found. The lines were painted on with the brightest white Draco had ever seen, each bar perfectly straight. ‘I don’t suppose this was done by your house elf?’ he said to Blaise, who laughed.

            ‘Thought this would make a good arguing point, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘No, sorry to disappoint. This was all Potter’s work, wasn’t it, Potter?’

            ‘Yes sir,’ Potter said.

            ‘Splendid job,’ Montague said. Draco merely nodded his assent, and Theo grunted once again.

            'Everything you touch looks so _vibrant_ ,' Daphne simpered, resting a hand on Potter's arm while Draco fumed. She was much cleverer than she was making herself sound, and the flirtation was all an act, just for a laugh, probably so she could amuse herself with Potter's confused, bashful reactions. Some part of Draco couldn't blame her--Potter was captivating when he blushed, ears and neck just as ruddy as his face. 'It's a wonder how you do it.'

            'It's just his magic,' Nott said.

            ' _Powerful_ magic,' Daphne corrected. 'Isn't that right, Potter? The way you managed to stop that boulder was really quite breathtaking.'

            'Thank you, Miss,' Potter stuttered, and Daphne beamed. It took all Draco had not to scowl and turn away. Instead, he refocussed his attention back on Quidditch, and kept it there until they were up in the air.

            Three-a-side Quidditch was different from regular Quidditch in that there were no Bludgers and Beaters, one had to be at least seven meters away from the goal posts to make a goal (in order to eliminate the need for a keeper), and anyone could be a Seeker. Blaise, as the host, released the Snitch and they were off.

            Draco was well-acquainted with all his friends' playing styles. Montague was all brute strength with his massive arms and large build, making him the ideal scorer. Blaise was shrewd and calculating with wicked reflexes. Nott was swift and agile, and Daphne a combination of the former two. Despite Nott's protestations, she really was a gifted player. Had she had any other friends, Draco doubted that she would have ever set foot on a pitch. Draco himself depended mostly on speed, propelling his throws via his momentum, rather than with what little strength he had. Like Nott had said, Potter was a complete wildcard. Draco had no idea what to expect, but he doubted that Potter would be completely terrible. He couldn't imagine that anyone so magically powerful could be simultaneously horrible at Quidditch.

            It wasn't until they were up in the air that Draco realised terribly he’d underestimated him. Potter flew like he had been born on a broom, with hardly any thought as to how to move his body, how to direct his broom, how to manoeuvre and twist and turn and dive. The lines of his body became long and gracefully fluid with each turn and twist, and Merlin, he was fast. He intercepted plays with such confidence, such elegance, that for many moments Draco forgot how absolutely common he was.

            'He's a right little peacock, wouldn't you say?' Nott muttered under his breath as he passed Draco.

            'That little peacock is winning us the game,' Draco countered. 'Isn't that what you wanted?'

            In the typical Nott fashion, he grunted and sped away. Draco chuckled. Nott was obviously wrestling between his disdain for Potter and his desire to win the game from Daphne. Served the little bastard right.

            The score was now ninety to sixty toward Draco, Nott, and Potter, and mostly on Potter's shots. After such obedient, obliging behaviour beforehand, Draco felt a little surprise toward the ease with which he beat his master to a pulp. He was lucky, Draco thought, that Blaise was such a decent, good-natured wizard. He tried to imagine Nott or even his father being so gracious and nearly laughed aloud at the thought.

            As the afternoon progressed, Draco found that his attention continually wavered from the game towards Potter, so much so, that the thrill of flying had been lost amongst the numerous thoughts surrounding Potter's appearance and skill and grace. He had to shake himself several times to bring himself back to reality. Someone was going to notice soon, and while he doubted anyone would confront him--bar Nott, who was as blind as a bat when it came to these sorts of things--the gossip would be unbearable if Daphne caught wind of it. Draco supposed she was a good person at heart, but her idea of entertainment often involved poking fun and stirring up trouble.

            The blond had just intercepted a pass from Montague to Daphne and whipped the Quaffle through the goalpost to make their one hundred and twentieth score against their eighty when he spotted Potter out of the corner of his eye. While Daphne caught the falling Quaffle from the other side of the goal post, Draco was watching breathlessly as Potter raced along the side of the pitch at an unbelievable speed. Blaise seemed to have caught on and began to follow Potter as closely as he could. He was just bridging the gap when suddenly, Potter nosedived, plummeting toward the ground at a breathtaking angle and speed. Draco's heart nearly stopped at the display. He could not imagine any human being moving at such a speed.

            'Merlin's beard!' he heard Montague murmur from somewhere on his right. It seemed they were all watching as Potter gained ever more momentum, bearing down on the Snitch. Blaise continued to tail him, but ten meters from the ground Blaise began to pull up, just barely missing the ground, and Potter was still flying for another moment--hardly more than a meter away from the ground--before pulling up mere breaths from the ground. Draco began to breathe

            'Merlin and Morgana,' Daphne breathed, coming up beside him as Potter rose back into the air, one hand curled into a fist. 'He caught it. He caught the bloody Snitch.'

 

-

 

Nott, of course, became even more insufferable after the match than before. He'd revised his condescending attitude towards Potter into something considerably more agreeable, and as they  all walked off the pitch back towards the broom shed, Nott's arm was slung companionably around Potter's.

            'Absolutely brilliant, wasn't he, Daphne?' he said predictably, a smug, triumphant grin hung about his features.

            Daphne scowled, in a most unlady-like fashion. 'Quite,' she replied tightly.

            'Won us the game. Better luck next time, I guess, right, Daph?'

            'Right-o.'

            When Nott found her acceptably disgruntled, he turned back to Potter.

            'What a catch,' he said as Draco stewed, unreasonably jealous of Nott's arm so carelessly thrown over Potter's shoulders. He found he wanted to reach over and rip it off just to replace it with his own, and had to take several deep breaths to push the whole idea away before it became too tempting. 'Most impressive, Potter,' Nott simpered on. 'I would have pegged you for a League player in a moment, I really would have.'

            'Thank you, sir,' Potter said, looking more bashful than he ever had.

            'Have you ever thought about joining the League?'

            Potter hesitated, and Blaise filled the gap. 'Now now, Nott, don't go trying to take away my groundskeeper.'

            'But surely we cannot let this talent go to waste! The World cup doesn't start until next year and I'm positive the British team is already filled, but if you get into contact with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, we could all put in a few good words...'

            'Thank you, sir,' Potter said. 'But I don't think the national team has any need of me.'

            'Rubbish,' Nott said. 'But if at any point you become interested, do contact me, Potter. I would love to sponsor you if you pursue a career in Quidditch.'

            Draco rolled his eyes. He should have known that's what it would be about. Money. The Notts, while their name was very powerful, had considerably less where funds were concerned. Theo was probably the poorest of their circle of friends, and no doubt resented the fact, though why Draco couldn't quite understand. It was a bit embarrassing, perhaps, but it wasn't as though they teased him about it.

            'Thank you, sir,' Potter said.

            'It's a good time for tea, wouldn't you say?' Montague said as they neared the broom shed.

            'I quite agree,' Blaise said. 'I forgot how absolutely exhausting Quidditch is. Apparently, the last time I played was longer ago than I originally thought.'

            'Yes, we noticed,' Daphne quipped, and Draco laughed.

            'Potter, after you have put all your gear away, why don't you go up to the house and have Fortescue and Miss Abbott set the drawing room for tea? The usual, I think. And perhaps some extra sweets for the guests.'

            'Of course, sir,' Potter said graciously, and just then he happened to look up in such a way that his gaze collided most abruptly with Draco's.

            Instinct told the blond to look away immediately, but something kept him rooted to the spot, maintaining eye contact with Potter. While Potter, ever the good little servant, looked away immediately, Draco's own gaze traced Potter's eyelids, his eyelashes, the edges of his irises and the pools of green trapped inside. They were but small dots from where he stood, and yet there was something endless about them that made the distance significantly insignificant. Their inhumanly dazzling colour had Draco's breath stuttering in his throat. _He could have whole cities bowing at his feet if he wished_ , Draco thought. _All he would have to do is look at them long enough_.

            And he might have gone on that way, staring at Potter just so, all the way until the sun receded behind the horizon hours from now, had it not been for Nott, accidentally bumping into him.

            'My apologies, Malfoy,' the wizard said, breaking Draco's gaze, and at the words, Potter glanced up again, back to Draco, wearing a slightly confused, inquisitive expression. Draco looked away, a hot, ruddy flush instantly blooming on his neck and ears. _Merlin_ , he thought, scandalised at his brazen response. This man would drive him to ruin.

            And surely he now knew of Draco's untoward thoughts. How could he not? Draco practically shook at the thought of Potter exposing them. He doubted that the brunet would even dare to at such a time, but the threat loomed over Draco's shoulder. And even if he did, no one would believe him. He was a groundskeeper, for Merlin's sake! But the gossip, the rumours could ruin his chances at the Ministry forever. It would sully his marriage to Astoria until he became a private joke or juicy tid bit, a piece of gossip one would whisper about to their dinner companion after one shook Draco's hand and watched him walk away. ' _Did you hear about that Potter boy?_ ' They would whisper, trying to fight off the grin on their face as they shared their deliciously scandalous bit of news with their companion. ' _They never found out if he was telling the truth, but can you imagine any reason he would make up such an accusation?_ ' Draco's throat closed up in his imagined dread, and only opened again when Montague passed him walking into the shed. The blond realised that if he did not move quickly, he would be caught walking into the shed beside Potter.

            Once Blaise had conjured Daphne's curtain and she was safely behind it, they all sat down on one of the benches and began to unlace their gear. Draco, ever the fool, had sat down right away and of course, Potter had sat down beside him. He should have waited until all were seated before him so he could choose whom he sat down beside, but what was done, was done, and he could not gravely insult Potter and perhaps even Blaise by choosing to move away from the brunet.

            Potter chose to speak first. 'Good game, Mister Malfoy. You fly good.'

            'Thank you, Potter,' he said primly, avoiding eye contact as he unlaced his shin braces. 'Though I think we can agree that you are far more talented.'

            Despite Draco's neutral tone, Potter's neck went a bit red, a fact Draco pointedly ignored. 'Thank you, sir. They say my dad were on the team when he were at Hogwarts. An award-winning Chaser.'

            'I wouldn't doubt it.'

            'Er, sir?'

            'Yes, Potter?'

            'Is there anythin' I ought to bring to Malfoy Manor?'

            Draco paused. 'Whatever you usually take to travel, I suppose. And your best clothes. You will be a guest in my home, Potter, not a servant.'

            'Very good, sir. Will your, ah, fiancée be there?'

            Draco gave him a sideways glance, but Potter's expression betrayed nothing--which must have meant something, as the groundskeeper had proven many times since the day before that he wore his emotions on his sleeve. _How Gryffindor,_ Draco thought wryly.

            'No. She and I do not live together, she merely visits often.'

            'And... your mother?'

            Draco swallowed, and did not make eye contact. 'My mother will no doubt want to accompany her, but I do not believe that the exact details have been worked through as of now.'

            Potter nodded.

            'But there shall be house elves,' he added as an afterthought. 'My house has very many house elves. Twelve, I believe.'

            Potter pursed his lips, but said nothing, a reaction which Draco thought quite odd. He pushed the thought aside, something he seemed to do often in Potter's presence.

            'All prepared to return to the house?' Blaise asked some moments later.

            'Daphne?' Nott called through the curtain.

            'Once again, I've been finished for some time now. Are you all quite decent?'

            'Well, I don't think Montague has ever been,' Blaise began, to which they all sniggered and Daphne scoffed, vanishing the curtain. She'd changed out of her breeches and into proper vestments, her legs hidden by the long cut of her robes, and her hair returned to its previously immaculate state.

            'One would think you all were children,' Daphne sniffed, and walked past all of them. 'Don't you know you've got a lady amongst you?'

            Nott shot Draco a look which had Draco, despite himself and his usually impeccable manners, turning his unfortunate snicker into a cough. Daphne was not unaware of this exchange, and exited the shed with a theatrical huff. 'Potter, would you do me the kindness of accompanying me back to the house?' she called back.

            'If it would please you, Miss,' Potter said, frightfully red from the attention.

            'It would.'

            They all watched as Potter trotted up to Daphne and took her extended arm.

            'Isn't he a right little sycophant,' Nott muttered.

            'And who was it that was congratulating him on his impressive talent not too many minutes ago?' Blaise said pointedly, a dry smile twisting his features.

            'His obvious talent doesn't automatically mean he can't be a simpering leech.'

            Draco bristled at Theo's harsh words, but did not allow himself to act. Blaise did it for him.

            'Potter has been nothing but generous in my service, and a fine fellow who recently saved us all from a lot of harm, to boot, and I do not quite believe that he is deserving of such commentary.'

            Theo scowled but did not reply.

            Blaise turned, considering the matter finished with. 'Let's be off now, else Daphne will eat all the sweets just to spite us.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another MASSIVE thanks to my beta Michy, and I'm really sorry for my tardiness this week!

_That night at dinner,_ Draco informed his mother of the next week's plans. Narcissa was beside herself with excitement. 

            ‘He sounds positively charming!’ she said of Potter. ‘I know I planned to go away with Astoria the day of his arrival, but perhaps I will stay for a bit longer to meet him.’

            ‘Please don’t,’ Draco said, though with very little heat. As long as she was gone by Thursday evening, he didn’t particularly care what his mother decided. Besides, he had more important things to think about. For example, the Veritaserum.

            It was difficult, but by the next day Draco managed to place an order for every ingredient he’d need to brew a batch of Veritaserum. Some he already had, and some were easily procured from the Potion Supply shop in Diagon Alley. He had one of his elves attend to those items, while he called in several favours from various shops and family friends from around the country. He’d planned to begin brewing on Saturday, the day after the Quidditch game, but his order of mer-scales arrived a day later than planned, and so Draco was forced to start the Potion on Sunday, instead. He tried not to let himself worry over it too much—it would undoubtedly be a close call, but finishing on time was still perfectly feasible.

            The Manor had been built with a room specifically designed for brewing. The walls were fortified with charms in case of an accident and the floors were made for easy clean-up. Inside were cabinets for ingredients, and candles whose luminosities could be easily adjusted with a wave of one’s hand, per a Potion’s instructions. A large, tall table stood in the centre, the perfect height for one to stand and work, and on one side there was a small square cut into its surface, in which a fire could be started and atop which a large cauldron could perch.

            Sunday morning, Draco rose early, the first rays of sunlight just brushing the horizon. The whole world was bathed in a pale lilac-pink, and Draco had planned his morning quite precisely so he could start the potion and still make it to breakfast. He left twenty minutes to spare, as his mother was outrageously particular about punctuality. It was a sin, she believed—and told him more times than he could count—to break a promise, and was not tardiness a violation of an unspoken pledge to arrive when expected? Draco’s feelings on the matter were not as ardent, but it was enough that his mother’s were, for her wrath, though hardly frightening, was enduring, unpleasant, and thoroughly irritating.

            The Manor was even more quiet than usual at this time of day. It was almost always silent in almost any part of the Manor at any given time, as only Draco and his mother—and occasionally his father—inhabited the place on a day-to-day basis, but the morning afforded a peculiar kind of quiet, one threaded with tranquillity and freshness. Draco was very much a morning person, and revelled in the peace and quiet this particular time of day granted him.

            Veritaserum was a complicated potion, but only at certain times during the brewing process. There was a point at which the potion was to be left to brew with no supervision for two whole days, and yet on the third day (the fourth day, in all), two hundred clockwise and seventy seven counter-clockwise stirs were required by seven in the morning, precisely. That was the day Potter would arrive, and then, if everything went according to plan, the Veritaserum would be complete by Sunday afternoon. And so, as soon as he entered the Potion’s room, Draco set to work.

            It was around half past seven in the morning when Draco heard a knock at the door. Luckily, the blond was not at any critical part of the brewing, and was simply dicing pincer beetles into sevenths. ‘Come in,’ he called, and a house elf shuffled into the room, an envelope clutched in its little hands.

            ‘A letter arrived by owl a few moments ago, Master Draco,’ it reported.

            ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Any clue as to who the sender might be?’

            ‘’Twas a Ministry owl, Dilly believes.’

            ‘Excellent. I’m busy at the moment, so read it to me.’

            ‘Yes sir,’ Dilly said. ‘” _Dear Mister Malfoy. I am writing to you from the Minister’s office in the Ministry of Magic, London. Perhaps you remember me, but in any case, my name is Percy Weasley._ ’ Draco frowned, but did not interrupt. This particular Weasley was the black sheep of the family, achieving a relatively high position in the support staff of the Minister for Magic while the rest of his family worked in joke shops, dragon reserves, and the like. ‘” _I serve as the Junior Assistant for Cornelius Fudge. It has come to my attention that you are looking into a career in politics. I have heard many good things about you, especially pertaining to your shrewdness and ambition. I remember you vaguely from Hogwarts as a charming, well-respected child._ ”’ The phrasing was ambiguously condescending but Draco chose to ignore the connotation.

            ‘” _Two weeks ago, Minister Fudge informed me that he would like to promote me to Senior Assistant, and has bestowed upon me the privilege of picking my successor. I have not chosen as of yet, but I am seriously considering you as a possible candidate. If you are interested in this rewarding, esteemed position, please reply to this message as promptly as possible. Sincerely, Percival Ignatius Weasley, Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic._ ”’

            The grin that had begun to bud on Draco’s face fully bloomed as the letter concluded. ‘Dismissed, Dilly,’ he said, and his voice sounded high and giddy. When the elf left, Draco dumped his beetles into the cauldron and continued on with his potion, mind whirring all the while. The position of Junior Assistant was a stepping stone, a way to get a look at the workings of the Ministry—the politics within the politics—without the responsibility. It mostly involved following the Minister around and managing his affairs, while at the same time making connections and meeting the higher-ups. The fact that the Minister was keeping Weasley on his staff, instead of transferring him to a department, was very telling—either he was especially good at what he did, or good for nothing except serving as a sycophant to Fudge. Perhaps both.

            Draco had planned to make his debut in politics the traditional way, bypassing the intern stage through his family’s influence, but still starting low enough to give the illusion of humility. Then he’d rise in the ranks as he charmed more and more people, made more and more change, developed a platform based on his opinions and goals in his given department—hopefully International Cooperation or the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—and then he’d become Department Head. Those plans, evidently, were now not _nearly_ as necessary if he became the Minister’s Junior Assistant. He could quite possibly jump right from Junior Assistant into the International Confederation of Wizards or the International Magical Office of Law or even the Wizengamot, a few more years down the line. Therefore, Draco resolved to write to Percy Weasley as soon as he finished breakfast with his mother. This could be the springboard from which Draco launched his long-sought career, and he had no intention of losing it.

            And, of course, it made Draco’s attempt to find any subterfuge involved in his spontaneous attraction to one Harry Potter an absolute priority. Draco refocussed on the Veritaserum.

 

-

 

The following day was a Monday, and Astoria came ‘round for tea. After so much time spent thinking about Potter, or trying _not_ to think about Potter, seeing her was like a breath of fresh air. She looked lovely—as per usual—light, frothy robes bubbling, effervescent, around her slight, delicate figure. Her gorgeous chestnut curls were arranged artfully about her face, and Draco smiled as Dilly guided her into the Drawing Room. He stood politely as she greeted Narcissa with pleasantries and a kiss on each cheek, and then greeted Draco much in the same way, though she briefly pecked his lips. _This is the woman you will marry in a month,_ he thought to himself with satisfaction. _Polite, entertaining, charming, beautiful_. Any other thoughts about any other person were determinedly pushed aside, into a deep, far corner of his mind.

            Straight away the conversation turned to the wedding. Draco would have thought that all those details would have been properly hashed out by this time, but that was evidently not the case, as his mother and fiancée discussed place settings and floral arrangements for the subsequent reception. Draco remained fairly quiet throughout the exchange, speaking only when asked his opinion and spending the rest of the time enjoying the refreshments. By the time the house elf Vanished the tea tray, Astoria and Narcissa had decided on all the shops they were to visit during their short holiday in Paris, browsing for wedding items.

            ‘You will be quite alright with Potter on your own?’ Astoria asked. ‘I can stay, if you would prefer.’ Draco waved her off. Perhaps Astoria’s presence would more thoroughly deter him from any imprudent actions, but he could not take any risk of such actions occurring while she was in the house. No, it was best if he remained alone with Potter.

            ‘I suggested that I stay a little longer than originally planned,’ Narcissa said. ‘I wanted to meet the Potter boy.’

            ‘He is very shy,’ Astoria replied, ‘And a bit strange. It’s hard to explain, but there is something about the way he looks and holds himself. Positively dreadful accent, but that is to be expected. He grew up well off enough, but his uncle ran some sort of business, something rather crude, like fishing.’

            Draco stared. How had Astoria known that much?

            ‘He is a decent enough sort, though, and we could never thank him enough for saving us,’ she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘It is unfortunate, his upbringing. If his parents hadn’t died, perhaps we would have been friends.’

            ‘The Potters supported Muggles,’ Draco blurted off-handedly, without thinking.

            Astoria looked momentarily uncomfortable. ‘Of course, there was that.’

            ‘It sounds like such a tragic waste,’ Narcissa said with no small amount of melodrama.

            Astoria nodded along sombrely.

            A few minutes later, Draco’s mother excused herself, as she had a meeting with her aunt in a restaurant in Diagon Alley. Draco suggested a walk in the garden for himself and Astoria, to which she agreed.

            The garden at Malfoy Manor was a large plot of land that spanned from one side of the house to other, separated into a seven by fourteen array. Paths made the lines, while flower beds and trees, among other flora, filled in the squares. In the centre four by four section, the house elves built and maintained a labyrinth out of hedges with rows of roses lining the tops. The sun was out and the air was warm and pleasant, punctuated by an occasional breeze that ran cool, gentle fingers through the tree leaves and Draco’s hair. When they walked out into the garden, he offered Astoria his arm, which she took. The sleeves of her robes, while transparent, were long and cinched at the wrist, and at the feel of her arm on his, Draco realised how little they touched. He supposed it wasn’t that odd, considering his parents’ interactions and especially Nott and Pansy’s, but then he thought of Tracey and Montague. They held hands at the table when they weren’t eating, and kissed each other before either left a room. Tracey doted on Montague just as much as she did on their boy, and vice versa. The two didn’t seem merely _comfortable_ with each other, or merely _fond_ of each other—they seemed to genuinely love each other. Draco had never pictured love in his future, not even as a boy. He’d never really thought such a thing was important, at least past the love between him and his mother. But now, the impossibility of it suddenly seemed terrifying. _Perhaps I will_ grow _to love Astoria,_ he thought to himself. _Perhaps it will come after a few years, or after our first child is born._

            ‘Your mother gardens many of these plots, does she not?’ Astoria asked as they started down the path. Draco redirected his thoughts. They were useless, anyway.

            ‘Quite correct. Almost all of them, actually, though she leaves the trees and the hedges to the elves. Gardening saves her from an idle mind and body, I think.’

            ‘They flourish beautifully under her care.’

            ‘I shall tell her you thought so.’

            ‘Potter’s flowers were surreally bright, wouldn’t you say?’

            Draco winced inwardly at the turn in conversation. ‘Yes, I agree.’

            ‘Perhaps he would work his magic on the gardens. With Narcissa’s blessing, of course.’

            ‘I shall ask her tonight if she minds.’

            ‘I should have told her that inside the house.’

            ‘She won’t mind.’

            ‘Do you think I was just in my explanation of him?’

            ‘I would say so. Though,’ Draco added as an afterthought, ‘I must ask—how did you know so much about his whereabouts before he came to the Wizarding World?’

            ‘I asked the Carrows.’

            ‘The _Carrows?_ When did you see them?’

            ‘I didn’t see them. I was curious after the luncheon and owled Hestia, knowing that her family would know more about the Potters, seeing as their aunt and uncle closely followed the Potter’s assassin. She told me all she knew in exchange for a favour.’

            ‘What sort of favour?’

            ‘An invitation to our wedding.’

            ‘But they’re already on the list!’ Draco said, and she smirked.

            The blond laughed. ‘You’re a wonder, Astoria.’

            ‘Thank you, Draco.’

            ‘Ah, and this talk of Potter reminded me,’ Draco began. ‘I received a letter from Percy Weasley yesterday, offering me a chance to become Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic.’

            Astoria gasped and beamed. ‘How fortunate!’

            ‘Quite. I wrote him back yesterday with my confirmation. He said I would only be a candidate, but I doubt there is much in the way of competition. He was also quite friendly, which must mean something.’

            ‘Congratulations, Draco,’ she said earnestly, placing a hand on his chest. Draco then realised that they had stopped walking, and now stood directly behind a large tree that hid them from any view from the Manor.

            Astoria leaned very close, trailing one hand from Draco’s arm down to his wrist, circling it gently. The other slid up from his chest to around his neck, where her bare palm settled, warm and smooth on his skin. She smelled of honeydew and something else unidentifiable and sweetly feminine. ‘We shall have such a lovely life together,’ she murmured, and then leaned in to press a slow, gentle kiss on his lips.

            Draco’s eyelids slid shut as he followed her lead, lips moving languorously against Astoria’s as his free arm came to rest on the small of her back. She tasted of tea and lemons, and she felt small and soft in his arms. Holding her made Draco feel like a protector; powerful and appreciated.

            And yet…

            And yet, Merlin curse it, something crucial was missing. Kissing Astoria was gloriously comfortable, but comfortable was a sad state of being compared to the consuming vivacity and intensity Draco felt simply by _looking_ at Potter. Potter’s presence made his heart pound and his mind whir and his extremities tingle incessantly. He made Draco’s stomach feel weighted, as though with a stone, and his chest ache as though there were a cavity in it, waiting to be filled. It was a terrible thing, too, to know that he would have been content with Astoria’s sweet, lovely kisses his whole life if he had not met Harry Potter.

            It wasn’t long until Astoria noticed his lack of ardour.

            ‘Draco?’ she said, and her voice was softer, quieter than usual.

            ‘My apologies,’ he said, and meant it. ‘I was thinking about how much I’d miss you during the upcoming week.’

            That lie, based in some truth, was convincing enough, and to Draco’s relief, Astoria stepped away from him and smiled. ‘It will only be a week, and after that only three more until the wedding.’

            Draco smiled back, and though he truly did wish to put his fiancée at ease, it was different now—now that he knew something would always be missing when he was with Astoria. 


	4. Chapter 4

_Affairs were quite_ common in pureblood marriages, _especially_ those that had been arranged. There had been some point in Draco’s childhood, probably around the time he had entered adolescence, when he’d realised his Father was less than loyal. His mother, he’d never been one hundred per cent sure of, yet he very much doubted that she had ever had any extramarital interactions. But he knew for a fact that Lucius Malfoy kept many mistress to be used here and there whenever he so pleased. He also knew that the affairs, while even expected in less happy marriages such as that of his mother and father, were not well-received by Narcissa. She never said anything against them, in fact she never acknowledged them, but her distaste towards them was difficult to miss whenever a hint of the affairs would spring up accidentally.

            Therefore, Draco knew that not only would he be unable to keep an affair a secret from his wife, but also that Astoria would be even _less_ receptive towards one than his mother was, considering their fondness for each other. Also, despite his lack of passion for the witch, Draco acknowledged that it would be very difficult for him to cause her pain or upset.

            Moreover, the chance of gossip was always a risk. He was sure that there were rumours going on about his father behind Lucius’s back, but Lucius was the patriarch of a centuries-old line, with connections in dozens of countries and more money than one could spend years counting, galleon by galleon. Draco, while from the same line, was not nearly as important, powerful, or influential. He was not as nearly as well-connected, nor did he share his father’s reputation for grudges and severity. Therefore, a well-placed, well-repeated rumour could very well bring his burgeoning career to its knees.

            Draco paced in his bedchambers, hands folded behind his back. The pale rays of the early morning sun softened the harsh, dark lines of his bedroom, warm and buttery-soft on his skin. He glanced at the clock that hung on the wall opposite his bed, on the mantle. It was five-thirty in the morning, and in a few minutes he would need to walk down to the Potion’s Room to add the required ingredients to his Veritaserum and stir the required amount of times. After that, he would have eight whole hours to himself before Potter arrived at the Manor for his weekend stay. Draco’s whole body hummed at the thought. Potter, alone in his home, with everyone but the house elves gone away. The temptation it presented would be agonising, but if all went as planned, he would find out the truth behind his spontaneous attraction soon enough.

            Donning a house coat, Draco finally made his way out of his room and down the halls, towards the Potion’s Room. He frowned, brow furrowing, as he saw that the door was ajar. _Oh dear_.

            Slowly, he opened the door to find his mother at the table, stirring the Veritaserum. Translucent numbers floated in front of her—a three and a four, that quickly turned to a three and a five with the next revolution of the ladle.

            ‘Good morning, dear,’ Narcissa said. She was already dressed in her usual robes; Draco had very few memories of his mother in her nightclothes, and those memories all took place at night, right before he went to sleep.

            ‘Morning, Mother,’ he replied.

            ‘Cutting it a little close with this, aren’t you?’ she asked lightly.

            ‘I had time.’ Draco paused. ‘You do know what it is, don’t you?’

            ‘Of course I do,’ she scoffed. ‘Though why you’re brewing it, I can’t imagine.’

            ‘Practise,’ Draco said simply. ‘I very suddenly had a terrifying thought the other day, that I was losing my skills. I haven’t brewed in at least six months.’

            Narcissa hummed. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, this batch should be complete by Sunday, should it not?’

            Draco observed his mother closely. ‘You are correct, Mother.’

            ‘Are you sure you will be able to serve as a proper host for Potter while also brewing so complicated a potion?’

            ‘I have no doubts on my skill.’

            ‘It was not a question on your skill, dear,’ Narcissa said, placating. ‘Do you plan to show Potter your work?’

            ‘I plan to give him the run of the Manor,’ Draco said, carefully avoiding the question. ‘I’m sure he will be able to occupy himself on the grounds, in the library, with any of the portraits while I complete the Potion.’

            ‘Mm,’ she hummed again. There was something in her tone that made Draco uneasy. She was thinking something that she was not saying, something that she expected Draco to work out on his own, and he was loathe to speculate on what it could be. This was not an uncommon occurrence between mother and son, and it was one of Narcissa’s many habits that set had Draco’s teeth on edge when he was an adolescent. ‘It would be a shame to let such a lovely-looking brew to go to waste,’ she said. ‘I can see your logic.’ There it was again, that sensation of unspoken words.

            Draco chose to ignore the feeling.

            ‘Would you like me to finish, or would you prefer to?’

            Narcissa waved him off. ‘I’m perfectly alright here. You go and supervise the house elves in the last-minutes preparations for Potter’s arrival.’

            Draco knew that it was all finished—the sheets drawn in the guest bedroom, all the furniture dusted and the washroom wiped down to sparkling perfection—but departed anyway, knowing by his mother’s tone of voice that she would prefer to be left alone.

            The rest of the day was spent in a tizzy of unproductiveness. Draco could not concentrate on anything properly, and so instead he flitted around the Manor doing small things incompletely. He spent all his energy trying very hard to think about anything other than Potter, so much so that he had hardly any room in his mind to focus on other objectives. His mother emerged from the Potion’s Room a half an hour after he went in and supervised the house elves in the last bit of packing that needed to be done before she headed off to Paris with Astoria.

            ‘Draco,’ she said as her son entered her room and began pacing back and forth, having more nervous energy than he knew what to do with. Only an hour remained now until Potter would arrive. ‘Draco, you are giving me a headache with all that pacing.’

            ‘Impossible,’ he said instantly. ‘It is impossible to get a headache simply from watching a person walk to and fro.’

            ‘Perhaps, but it is making me uneasy. Why don’t you sit down, dear?’

            Draco hesitantly sat down across from his mother.

            ‘I cannot recall a single instance in which you were so twitchy,’ his mother mused. ‘Could this have anything to do with the arrival of Mister Potter?’

            ‘Of course not,’ Draco said, perhaps too quickly, as his mother raised one eyebrow.

            ‘Do you think highly of Mister Potter?’

            ‘It would be difficult not to, wouldn’t you think? He did save my life, and Astoria’s.’

            ‘Yes. Though Astoria’s assessment of him as a “decent sort” doesn’t seem to quite warrant such behaviour, wouldn’t you say?’ Narcissa threw him a side-long glance that Draco pretended quite successfully not to see.

            ‘I do not think that I have ever entertained a guest on my own for such a long period of time,’ Draco said finally.

            Narcissa, though Draco could tell that she was not entirely convinced, nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right. It was a good idea, then, for you to practise. As master of the house, you will have to organise and host all sorts of events here at the Manor. Think of this as an exercise in hospitality.’

            ‘I was rather hoping that Astoria would take care of that part,’ he mumbled under his breath. His mother heard him anyway.

            ‘Your father never used me in that way,’ she said, her voice lightly reprimanding. ‘Lucius was old-fashioned in many ways, but we ran the household equally.’

            Draco looked away, slightly chastened. ‘You’re right, mother,’ he allowed.

            ‘I hope you remembered all the rules of being a host.’

            ‘Go over them with me once more, if you wouldn’t mind,’ Draco said sarcastically, but his tone was lost on Narcissa; or she chose to ignore it.

            ‘Eat all meals with your guest. Give them a grand tour of the house. Set boundaries; for example, your study is off limit, but the grounds are always open; that sort of thing. Give them full use of the house elves. Inquire as to their dining tastes so as to always have a food you know they will enjoy. Inquire as to their hobbies and past times so as to properly entertain them. Make sure the house elves change their bedclothes while they are out of the room; perhaps during breakfast. Remember to—‘

            ‘I think that will do, Mother,’ Draco interrupted after humouring her for a few moments. ‘Thank you,’ he added under her positively glacial stare. ‘I think I’ve got everything. Nothing past common sense, I think.’

            ‘I haven’t even gotten halfway through the list,’ Narcissa said. ‘If you asked to hear the whole list, certainly I should tell you the whole list.’

            ‘It’s alright, Mother. I’m sure Potter won’t mind if I slip anyway.’

            That was the wrong thing to say.

            ‘Draco Malfoy!’ Narcissa squawked more than spoke. ‘That is definitely _not_ how I raised you. Simply because Mister Potter is lower in class than us does not mean that he does not deserve to be neglected—‘

            ‘I implied nothing of the sort!’ Draco said defensively, throwing up his hands. ‘I simply meant that he is so mild-mannered, and not acquainted with many of our luxuries anyway—‘

            Narcissa narrowed her eyes at him and opened her mouth to speak again when an elf appeared at the doorway.

            ‘Excuse me, Mistress and Sir,’ the elf squeaked. ‘A Mister Harry Potter has arrived through the Floo.’

            A shiver skidded down Draco’s spine, the effects of which he quickly repressed. ‘Let’s go and greet him, then, shall we, Mother?’ he suggested quietly, and to his relief, Narcissa’s pique abated, and she stood from her arm chair.

            ‘You will be the perfect host to Mister Potter, I hope,’ she said to him more gently as he stepped back to allow her to exit the room first.

            ‘I will, Mother,’ Draco said, embarrassed that he had brought up the subject at all.

            The fireplace by which Malfoy Manor was attached to the Floo Network was in the parlour, which was one of the first rooms that one entered while coming into the house the traditional way. When Draco and Narcissa descended the steps, they were greeted by another elf who led them into the parlour.

            Draco braced himself—his previous experience with the man had told him well enough exactly how he would respond involuntarily—as the elf opened the double doors leading to the parlour with a snap of his fingers.

            The sight of it was surreal, the object of Draco’s most covert, reprehensible affections standing so innocently inside Draco’s own home, as though the mere sight of him did not make Draco’s knees tremble and shake terribly. Potter’s clothes were finer than Draco had expected—though made of rough, inexpensive fabric, he wore the waistcoat, the jacket, the necktie, the collar, the trousers; his work boots were replaced with loafers, and a house elf was currently in the process of folding up a respectable set of black robes. His hair, which had been frightfully unruly before, was now slicked back with some sort of gel, and that alone gave him a more refined countenance, highlighting the strong, straight lines of his jaw and brow. Despite this, Draco found himself wanting to run his fingers through Potter’s hair, to mess it about until it unlocked from its terrible state of tidiness into the chaos that was somehow preferable. The thought made him wince, though he minded his manners and hid it with a turn of his head.

            ‘Hello, Mister Potter!’ his mother was crying out, shedding all sense of pureblood decorum as she rushed forward, embracing him tightly.

            Draco, despite his distress, could not help but smile as Potter’s eyes fairly bulged, his arms flying out to the side in his confusion. Obviously, he had been expecting a prim welcome and an outstretched hand to kiss. To Potter’s credit, though, he quickly regained his composure. What he would have done next Draco couldn’t have guessed, and his mother took care of that by releasing the man.

            ‘Oh, Mister Potter, I hope that wasn’t too forward of me. It was the least I could do to thank the wizard that saved my son and my future daughter-in-law.’

            Potter shook his head. ‘Not at all, madam,’ he said with a slow smile. Draco’s heart thudded dangerously in his throat. He was having second thoughts. Why did he think that having Potter over, alone, for four whole days, was a good idea? ‘It was my pleasure, madam.’

            _Pleasure_. Draco’s stomach twisted at the sound of such a word passing through Potter’s lips.

            There was a pause, and Draco realised he was being rude. ‘Hello, Potter,’ he said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. His mother’s sidewise glance distracted him from its smooth warmth—Potter was a guest this weekend, not a servant, and so the blond should have addressed him as ‘Mister’. He swore inwardly at his error.

            ‘Millie,’ Draco called to the nearest elf. ‘Take Potter’s bags to the Green Room.’

            ‘Yes sir,’ the elf said, bowing before reaching for Potter’s bags.

            ‘I can take them myself,’ Potter offered, stepping in front of the elf.

            ‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ Narcissa said. ‘Millie, go ahead.’ She turned back to Potter. ‘You shall not lift a finger while in this house.’ She glanced at Draco. ‘Did you hear that, Draco?’

            ‘Perfectly, Mother,’ Draco said tightly.

            ‘Very good.’ She then turned to the house elf. ‘Quibby, fetch me my bags.’

            ‘Yes, mistress.’ The house elf Disapparated with a _crack_.

            ‘I am rather sorry about his, Mister Potter. I’m not sure if Draco told you, but I am off to Paris on a holiday with his fiancée. I am to Floo to the Greengrass Estate, to meet with Astoria, and then Apparate to the Department of Magical Transportation, where we’ll be catching a Portkey to France. We are preparing for the upcoming nuptials, you see. I decided to stay a bit longer before I departed to meet you.’

            ‘You needn’t have bothered, madam,’ Potter said, looking down bashfully at his shoes.

            ‘Rubbish. I very much wanted to meet the man responsible for my son’s current state of wellbeing.’

            Potter’s neck and face flushed. ‘It really weren’t nothing, madam.’

            Narcissa smiled fondly at Potter. ‘Perhaps not to you, but I will be forever grateful. Now then, I really must be going, I couldn’t alter the time for the Portkey and it would be rather unfortunate if we missed that. I do hope you enjoy your weekend here, Mister Potter.’

            ‘Thank you, madam.’

            This time, she did extend her hand, which Potter took very gently and brushed his lips over—the jealousy that stabbed into Draco was beyond absurd—and then Narcissa turned to her son.

            ‘Enjoy the holiday,’ Draco said, embracing her. ‘Give my love to Astoria.’

            The phrase, which had been so easy before, was now a struggle to spit out. Draco supposed he did well enough, though, because his mother smiled.

            ‘Of course, dear.’ She leaned in to whisper into Draco’s ear. ‘I don’t really expect you to be a dreadful host,’ she said. ‘I just thought you could do with the reminding.’

            Draco huffed out a chuckle. ‘Somehow, I am not surprised.’

            Narcissa swatted him. ‘Just keeping you on your toes, dear.’

            Quibby returned, with two small cases. ‘Quibby is ready for departure, mistress.’

            ‘Ah, good. What time is it, Draco?’

            ‘Nearly half past three.’

            ‘Excellent. I shall be right on time. Goodbye, Mister Potter, it was a pleasure to meet you.’

            ‘You as well, Missus Malfoy.’

            ‘Take good care of him, Draco.’

            ‘I will, Mother.’

            ‘Now, come along, Quibby.’ From the mantel, she scooped up a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the flames before stepping into them. ‘Greengrass Estate!’ she called, and then she and the elf were gone.

            ‘I don’t ever think I’ll get used to that,’ Potter said softly when she’d gone.

            Draco turned. ‘How long have you been in the Wizarding World again?’

            ‘Nearly three years now, sir.’

            ‘You’ve got plenty of time, then.’

            ‘In the Muggle world, they use horse-drawn carriages, sir. If you’re the richer sort, you use automobiles.’

            ‘Those great machines that cough and spit as they roll along?’

            ‘Quite right, sir. They’re rather new.’

            ‘Have you ever ridden in one?’

            ‘I’ve washed one, sir. My uncle had one. Was his pride and joy, I think. I was never allowed inside it; I think they were afraid I’d ruin it.’

            ‘Would you have?’ Draco asked cheekily.

            ‘I don’t think so, sir. But they was always worried about me ruining things. Was afraid of me, I think. Aunt Petunia knew I wasn’t quite right, at least from a muggle viewpoint; knew her sister wasn’t quite right, either, sir.’

            ‘You had no idea you were a wizard? That your mother and father were a wizard?’

            ‘I knew I was a strange sort, sir, but no, I never even though myself a wizard until the blokes from the Ministry found me.’

            ‘It must have been dreadful, living with Muggles for so long,’ Draco said.

            ‘I known plenty of good Muggles, sir’ Potter said slowly, as though cautious. ‘The lady that lived in the house beside my uncle’s was kind, though she were a bit barmy. Kept nearly a dozen cats as pets. She were nice to me, always.’

            Draco blinked uncomfortably. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, tea will be served in this room in about a half an hour. I’ll let you go to your room and unpack your belongings. Millie will show you the way.’

            At the sound of her name, the elf appeared with a bow.

            ‘Hello, Millie.’

            Draco’s brow furrowed. He had never heard anyone greet an elf before.

            ‘Mister Potter, sir,’ the elf replied.

            ‘If you need me, I shall be in my study,’ Draco said. ‘If not, I shall see you at tea.’

            ‘Right. Thank you, sir.’

            Draco nodded and watched as the elf took him by the hand and Disapparated to the Green Room.               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to my beta, MichyDrarryShipper~~


	5. Chapter 5

_When Potter came_ down for tea, the sun was at such an angle that its light poured in through the high windows, going down one of the parlour’s walls. And when he came to sit at the settee closest to Draco, the light fell on the brunet in such a way that he became a silhouette, sunbeams pouring out from his sides and flowing above his head. Draco, having already been sitting on the chair across for a few minutes, pretended not to notice the effect and, as Potter sat, finally took his first sip of tea.

            ‘I trust the room was to your liking?’ he said, struggling to keep his tone light.

            ‘It was gorgeous, sir,’ Potter said. ‘En’t never seen as big a room.’

            ‘Surely you saw such rooms at Blaise’s?’

            ‘En’t never went in the bedrooms, sir. That were the job of the valet and the maids and whatnot.’

            ‘I see. So where did you go?’

            ‘I helped in the kitchens sometimes, but mostly worked outside the house, in the gardens or the lawns or the pond. Minded the flowers and trimmed the bushes, cut down the grass, those sorts of things.’

            ‘I saw your work while at Blaise’s. He told us that _you_ transformed the trees into the creatures we saw there that afternoon.’

            Potter reddened, as Draco had come to expect. ‘You’re right, sir.’

            ‘They were quite well-crafted.’

            ‘Thank you sir.’

            ‘He said you not only trimmed them, but designed them all.’

            ‘Yes, sir.’

            ‘Are you an artist?’

            ‘I draw, when I got the time. Charcoal, when I can find it, on toppa copies of _The Prophet_. The moving pictures don’t like that, much. Always grumble and yell, though they en’t like the paintings. Can’t make a sound.’

            The way Potter spoke about the Wizarding World was fascinating to Draco; one could tell that he had not lived in it for long, and he described things that Draco had long taken for granted.

            ‘Quite right. Don’t you have paper?’

            ‘Sometimes, though I don’t get much time to go down to Diagon Alley. I get every other Sunday off, sir, and those days I go to the Weasleys.’

            ‘Ah yes, the Weasleys. You are good friends with them, are you not?’

            ‘Yes sir. They sort of took me in when I came here.’

            ‘I went to school with Ronald. He was in my year.’

            ‘He don’t speak much of school, sir.’

            ‘Three of his brothers were there as well, though they graduated a few years before we did. And then there was his sister, who was a year younger.’

            To his surprise, Potter coloured, though by his facial expression, Draco could tell that he didn’t even notice it. His stomach twinged, and he wondered what sort of relationship with the youngest Weasley could have caused such a reaction.

            ‘You are well-acquainted with all of them?’

            ‘Well, the two oldest, Bill and Charlie, they work away, sir. Charlie’s in Romania, with dragons, and Bill is in Egypt, curse-breaking. Percy works in the Ministry and has a flat deeper in the city, closer to the Ministry. But the twins have a shop in Diagon Alley, sir, which Ron helps manage. Ginny’s betrothed now, so she’ll be moving out very shortly.’

            ‘To whom?’ Draco asked. He was not quite sure that he cared, but it kept the conversation going.

            ‘A bloke called Dean Thomas. Weren’t he in your year at Hogwarts, sir?’

            ‘I believe so.’

            ‘It’s different in the Muggle World. I don’t agree with it, sir, but Muggles’re less obliging toward coloured folk. My relatives especially.’

            Draco’s brow furrowed. ‘How do you mean?’

            ‘Coloured folk were slaves for a long time there, sir. People with darker skin,’ Potter explain further when Draco continued to appear confused. The blond nodded, to brows furrowed, to signal that he understood.

            ‘Some people think coloured folk are lower than pale folk because of it.’

            ‘That’s positively outrageous,’ Draco said. ‘Muggles never cease to appal me,’ he added, very seriously.

            Potter suddenly looked very uncomfortable, but he tried to hide it by lowering his gaze to his teacup. He sipped at it and said nothing in reply. Draco looked at him, confused. ‘What’s wrong, Mister Potter?’ he inquired.

            ‘’S nothin’, sir,’ he replied, and when he looked up the discomfort had fled his features. ‘Do you have gardens here at Malfoy Manor?’

            Draco was relieved at the turn in conversation—he resolved to examine Potter’s unease later that night. ‘Yes, very many. My mother tends to most of them. I secured her permission, though, for you to work your magic on them. If you’d like, of course,’ he added quickly.

            ‘Alright,’ Potter said. ‘Now?’

            ‘Maybe tomorrow after breakfast. I haven’t been to Blaise’s gardens in a while.’

            ‘Have you ever seen the greenhouse?’

            ‘Greenhouse?’

            Potter appeared excited as he went on. ‘Mister Blaise has a greenhouse alongside the pond now. It’s filled with fruits and vegetables for meals at the house, and also exotic plants from other countries. I get to learn how to grow ‘em.’

            ‘You would have enjoyed Herbology in school,’ Draco said. ‘I’ll tell you a story, Potter. Once, when we were in Herbology, it was second year and Professor Sprout was teaching us how to repot adolescent Mandrake Roots…’

            Potter was a fantastic audience. He listened, wide-eyed and attentive, and laughed sincerely as Draco recalled Neville’s fainting. It was different, though, than the way Draco had laughed when he was twelve. Then, the blond had laughed spitefully, but Potter was laughing as though, had he been there that day, he would have pulled Neville to his feet and patted him on the back, encouraging him to laugh at himself.

            Seeing that Potter was just about finishing his tea, Draco stood. ‘Would you like to take a tour of the Manor now?’ he asked.

            ‘Yes, sir,’ Potter said, and then looked a bit at a loss for a moment, teacup still perched in his hands, as though he didn’t know quite what to do with it.

            ‘You can put that down on the table,’ Draco said, amused. ‘The house elves will bring it to the kitchens. Come along, now.’

            Potter stood, and Draco led him out of the parlour, into the main hallway. ‘I’m taking you to the kitchens now,’ he said to his guest. ‘Over the course of your stay, you can pop in there whenever you feel peckish. The house elves will serve you anything you’d like.’

            ‘Thank you, sir,’ Potter said.

            Draco waved him off. ‘You’re a guest.’

            As they headed down the hall, the portraits on either side began to titter. Potter nearly jumped out of his skin.

            ‘You’ve never seen a portrait before?’ Draco said as Potter regained his composure, face flushed with embarrassment.

            ‘No, sir. I heard of them, and how they can speak, but I en’t never seen one in person. Are they of real people, sir?’

            ‘Most of them, yes. In this hall, all of them are family; my father’s on the right and my mother’s on the left. Would you like to meet one?’

            ‘Yes, sir,’ Potter said, after a moment of hesitation.

            Draco nearly approached Potter to place a hand at his back, the way he would have with Astoria, but caught himself just in time, recovering to stride toward the nearest friendly portrait. It was of one of his cousins, many times removed, a lady by the name of Clarissa Malfoy. She was dead by now, but in the picture she was in her early twenties. Draco had had many a conversation with her as a child, as she was the most mild-mannered of the portraits and least likely to screech at him for one thing or another. Hopefully that would translate into ‘least likely to be indignant over Potter’s less-than-perfect blood status’.

            ‘Hello, Draco,’ Clarissa said in her frame, where she sat with flawless posture, wearing a heavy, dark green gown. Her trademark platinum Malfoy hair was pulled back in a perfect coif.

            ‘Hello, Clarissa. This is my guest for the weekend, Mister Harry Potter.’

            Clarissa turned her attention on to Potter, who inclined his head and politely intoned, ‘Nice to meet you, Ma’am.’

            ‘Potter, you said?’ she asked.

            ‘Yes, ma’am.’

            ‘I knew a Potter when I was at Hogwarts,’ she said. ‘His name was William.’

            Potter’s eyes widened, and Draco smiled satisfactorily to himself. He’d made the _perfect_ choice.

            ‘Can you tell me about him?’

            ‘He was a Gryffindor,’ Clarissa said, with a slight air of disdain which Potter did not seem to notice. ‘Handsome, I suppose, and good at Quidditch, though I can’t remember what position he played now. He always came late to class and got quite a few detentions.’ Clarissa paused, and then said, ‘I’m afraid that’s all I can remember.’

            ‘That’s alright, ma’am,’ Potter said, now smiling widely. ‘Thank you.’

            ‘You’re welcome, Mister Potter.’

            ‘Thank you for speaking with us, Clarissa,’ Draco said. ‘Come, Harry, I’ve much more to show you.’

            ‘Alright, sir.’

            He gestured for Potter to start down the hall, and just as he was about to join him, Clarissa spoke quietly. ‘He’s a nice boy, isn’t he?’

            ‘Quite nice,’ Draco replied, a bit befuddled. He let it pass. ‘Goodbye, Clarissa,’ he said, and then turned back to lead Potter down toward the kitchens.

 

-

 

Potter’s eyes were wide when Draco entered the door to the kitchens. There were four house elves bustling about, washing the dishes from tea and already getting started on dinner. The kitchen was large and brightly lit, and Draco watched, amused, as Potter’s eyes fluttered shut when he breathed in.

            ‘Smells good, doesn’t it?’

            ‘Fantastic,’ Potter breathed more than said.

            ‘Wait until you taste it,’ Draco said. ‘The only food I’ve ever had that was better than the Manor’s was at Hogwarts. Now, on to the dining room.’

            Directly above the kitchens, the dining room was a massive, regal affair. The furniture was made of wood so dark it looked black, and a crystal chandelier hung over the long table, which had enough chairs to seat twenty guests. Paintings lined the walls, which were a soft green colour. Tall windows spanned the left side of the room, though at the moment they were covered by heavy grey curtains.

            ‘We will eat our meals, except for tea, in here,’ Draco said. ‘This was the first room of the Manor to be completed, you know. In the year 1637.’

            Draco was pleased to find that Potter looked suitably awed.

            ‘Everythin’s rather _green_ here, isn’t it sir?’ Potter said after a few moments, the hint of a smile curling.

            ‘The entire Malfoy Family has been in Slytherin House at Hogwarts since the family’s beginning. It’s a bit of a family tradition, you could say,’ Draco explained.

            ‘Wizards put a lotta stock in Hogwarts houses here,’ Potter commented.

            ‘Surely someone explained them to you?’ As Draco asked the question, he began to lead Potter out of the dining room.

            Potter nodded. ‘Ron did. There’s Gryffindor, for the brave, Ravenclaw, for the smart, Hufflepuff, for the hardworking, and Slytherin, for the… ambitious,’ he finished after a moment of hesitation.

            Draco frowned, knowing that there were a myriad of other words that Weasley would have been more inclined to equate with his old house. ‘It’s a bit simplistic, to put it that way, I think,’ he said. ‘The Sorting House sorts you not only by what traits you possess, but also by what traits one values, in one’s self and in others.’ Draco added, after a short time of consideration, ‘I suppose Weasley told you about the rivalry between our houses?’

            Potter smiled wryly. ‘He did, sir.’

            ‘Mmm…’

            ‘Snakes, he said of your lot, and he frowned as though he got something grimy stuck up his nose,’ Potter added, and Draco couldn’t help but chuckle. He remembered a decade ago, being eleven and starting his first year at Hogwarts, meeting Weasley for the first time. They’d had an argument, right there in front of the doors of the Great Hall as soon as McGonagall had left. Their animosity had died down around fifth year, when they both had had more important things to worry about than a schoolboy feud what with O.W.L.’s coming up—or, at least, that had been the case with Draco. Now, their various attempts at sabotage (Draco remembered the time that he’d put dung beetles in Weasley’s potion in second year, watching it explode and the Professor scribbling out a detention slip to the furious ginger) seemed so far away.

            ‘He’s still wary of your lot,’ Potter said. ‘I can always tell when one walks into the shop cos he gets all stiff-like.’

            Draco, just remembering, asked, ‘Did he ever marry the Granger girl?’ The blond remembered all their drama from school—constantly fighting, yet unable to stay away from each other. He wasn’t really all that interested, but listening to Potter speak was a little like listening to music, in a way.

            ‘Not yet,’ Potter replied. ‘Though none of us at the Burrow think it’ll be much longer yet.’

            _The Burrow_. That would be the Weasleys’ glorified hovel, seven stories of a disaster waiting to happen, but Draco sensed it would be better if he kept such thoughts to himself. They came to the doors of the library, which opened as they approached. From the corner of his eyes, Draco could see Potter flinch; yet another reminder that he and Potter had grown up in completely different worlds.

            ‘This is the library,’ Draco said, gesturing to the room. Book shelves stretched all the way to the cathedral ceiling, upon which there was a moving painting of the Third Goblin Rebellion. Smaller bookcases stood in rows going down the room, and in a small circle of plush armchairs and sofas stood close to the door.

            ‘Bloody hell,’ Potter said in a voice that signalled that the sentiment probably wasn’t for Draco’s ears. The blond smiled anyway. After the slightly awkward tea conversation, Draco was glad that Potter was enjoying the tour.

            ‘I never seent this many books at once,’ he said, taking an almost cautious step further into the room.

            Draco wondered if Potter could read, then tucked the thought away with a shake of his head. It would be downright rude to ask.

            ‘You’re free to come and go here as well, whenever you’d like,’ Draco said. ‘Our library is renowned for its collection; the only Wizarding libraries in the United Kingdom that rival it are the Hogwarts collection and the Wizards of Britain National Library, which is Ministry-owned and -run.’

            ‘Hermione talked about the library at Hogwarts a lot,’ Potter said absentmindedly as his eyes continued scanning the shelves. ‘She said it had anythin’ and everythin’.’

            ‘It is the same here, as well,’ Draco said. ‘Besides the collection of novels, we also have thousands of books on Wizarding History, Wand Lore, Potions, Spellwork, Herbology, genealogy…’

            ‘Genealogy?’

            ‘Yes, as in ancestry. The family tree and family history of every pureblood family since the founding of Britain can be found in this library.’ Draco didn’t realise what exactly he’d said until Potter’s green eyes widened dramatically. ‘I do suppose that includes your family. Feel free to look for whatever you like—the books will come to you if you hold out your wand and call out a subject. Here.’ Draco drew his wand from his robes pocket and held it aloft. ‘Please bring me all books on “Potter”,’ he said, and from the shelves to their right floated three large, grey tomes. They landed gracefully in Draco’s other outstretched hand.

            ‘Here, Potter,’ Draco said once he’d gathered them in his arms. ‘They are all yours for the weekend.’

            ‘Thank you, sir,’ Potter said breathlessly, his pretty mouth gaping as he took the books from the blond.

            Draco cleared his throat and quickly looked away. A blush threatened to warm his cheeks but he tried to stave it off.

            ‘If you’d like, I can have an elf send these to your rooms, so you can look over them after dinner.’

            ‘That’s alright, sir,’ Potter said. ‘It’s no trouble for me to carry them myself.’

            ‘Are you sure?’

            ‘Quite, thank you, sir.’

            Draco nodded, though he was still a little perplexed. ‘Alright, then, follow me.’

            The blond then led Potter from room to room, explaining a little bit of its history as he went along. ‘That is where we entertain the Minister, when he comes to visit, which is at least twice a year. That is where my great-great-grandfather wrote a book on the Goblin Rebellions which you can still purchase at Flourish and Blotts if you choose,’ and so on and so forth. Potter followed him, almost puppy-like, and Draco realised that Potter probably had very little experience with Pureblood culture and tradition. He’d said that while at Blaise’s, he’d hardly ever entered the house, and even when he had, Draco very much doubted that he would be visiting the drawing room or the library. The blond found himself practically basking in the attention, though he was sure to mask any possibly-revealing responses.

            When they finally finished the tour, nearly an hour and a half had passed, and Draco had managed to show him everything he had wanted to, besides the gardens, which would happen tomorrow morning. Now, it was dinner time, and Draco was secretly eager to introduce Potter to all the food he possibly could, all of which Draco was sure would be completely new to the Halfblood. Being the first to show Potter all these new things had a certain allure to it, Draco could admit. As they exited the last room, Potter speaking animatedly about the knight in the painting who had waved to him, the blond found himself relating his afternoon with the brunet to an experienced lover and a virgin going to bed for the first time. He flushed as soon as the thought was complete and then swiftly shoved it away—Draco still had three and a half days with his guest go.

            It was customary at the Manor for the whole house to change for dinner when guests were present, and so Draco thought little of Potter’s confusion when he told the brunet to retire to his room to ‘freshen up for dinner’. Draco assumed that the words were self-explanatory and simply turned on his heel toward his own chambers (after reminding Potter that he could ask the portraits for hep if he became lost). Dinner was at half past six, so Draco resolved to return to the dining room at quarter after, just in case Potter was early. That was another rule of being a good host—never make your guest wait for you. At quarter after six on the dot, Draco was seated at the dining room table, pushing down his dress robes. They were his favourite set, a deep green that complimented the slight blond of his hair, cut as to emphasise his slim, tall build. Draco would have been lying to himself if he said that the choice had not, in part, been made so as to impress Potter. Anyway, Draco reminded himself as he forced himself to move his hands away from his robes, Potter didn’t seem like the type to be taken in by fancy, expensive clothing. Nevertheless, Draco found himself imagining Potter divesting him of the robes, sliding them off his shoudlers with slow, smooth movements. The subsequent guilt and upset came swiftly, but Draco rationalised that he had neither allowed nor committed such actions, he simply imagined them. His thoughts were his own to do with what he wished.

            At half past six precisely, Potter stepped through the double doors of the dining room—wearing the same set of robes he had worn that afternoon. Draco’s disappointment was quickly dissolved, though, when he saw Potter’s expression, which was directed right at Draco, and included parted lips and an intense gaze, coupled with a noticeably slower walking pace than he had mere moments before. Potter, Draco concluded, was ridiculously unskilled in masking his emotions—unlike most Slytherins, he wore his heart on his sleeve, and suddenly Draco couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. If Potter’s face at that moment meant what Draco would guess, then the brunet was just as enamoured with Draco as Draco was with him. _What a horribly pleasant thought,_ Draco mused, trying desperately to shake himself of it. Just then, Potter reached his seat, his expression transformed into a timid smile.

            ‘Hope I weren’t keepin’ you waiting, Mister Malfoy,’ Potter said as he sat down, running a hand through his—noticeably neater—hair. It was pushed back and no-doubt held that way by some sort of sticking charm—Draco could not imagine that it would stay put any other way. Potter appeared more self-conscious, as though revealing more of his face revealed more of his self. Draco was determined to put him at ease.

            ‘Not long at all, Potter,’ he said, allowing a smile to break over his features. ‘I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to sharing this meal with you.’

            As though on cue, Potter blushed.

            Draco continued. ‘I doubt you have ever had the opportunity to taste food such as the dishes the elves are about to serve—I would love to have your opinion on every one.

            ‘Yes, sir,’ Potter said earnestly, and with a clap of his hands, house elves entered the dining room.

 

-

 

Despite his better judgment, and basic etiquette, Draco found himself walking with Potter up to his room after dinner’s conclusion. The meal had been the finest the elves could cook, and the effort had been well-rewarded by Potter’s expression of sheer bliss as he’d tasted dish after dish. Draco had nearly leaned on the table by his elbow, chin cradled in his hand, gazing at Potter like a love-struck schoolboy. Luckily, he’d caught himself, seemingly just in time.

            They’d spoken at length about Quidditch—among other topics—and Draco’d been in the middle of his recounting of the last match he’d attended, the Cannons against the Tornadoes. Draco’d learned, not surprisingly, that Ron Weasley was an avid supporter of the Cannons, while Draco had supported the Tornadoes since his boyhood. The Cannons had an abominable record over all, but that particular game had been quite a nail-biter. Potter had been listening to the tale when the grandfather clock at the head of the room struck ten. Somehow, more than three hours had passed without Draco noticing at all.

            ‘I suppose we ought to retire,’ Draco had said.

            ‘We don’t have to, if you’re not tired, sir,’ Potter then replied. ‘I wouldn’t mind hearin’ the end of the game.

            ‘I would hate for you to be tired tomorrow morning, though… Why don’t I walk with you up to your room and finish the game along the way?’ Draco’d known it was a bad idea before the words were out of his mouth, but, as it always seemed to be with Potter, he could not find the will to take them back.

            ‘That’s awfully kind of you, sir,’ Potter had said, and as though the wizard were a young lady, Draco then replied, ‘Oh, it’s no trouble at all. It would be my pleasure.’

            And so, here they were, a few dozen feet away from Potter’s door, Draco still prattling on like an attention-starved first year. Potter, to his credit, never failed to look anything less than completely attentive, a fact that Draco took note of and relished thoroughly.

            ‘Then, it was clear that McCall had seen the Snitch,’ Draco was saying, ‘And Brooks was still on the other side of the pitch. But the Tornadoes didn’t have quite enough points to beat the Wasps for the Cup. So he had to watch the Snitch until the margin was wide enough—which only took a few more minutes, thanks to the absolutely brilliant Hall and Felding—and then McCall dived. Brooks, of course, was still on the other side of the pitch. By the time he noticed McCall had seen the Snitch, its wings were already fluttering against McCall’s hand.’ Draco finished with a satisfied smile.

            ‘Blimey,’ Potter practically breathed.

            Draco coloured, more from the sound of Potter’s breathy murmur than anything else. ‘Have you ever seen a professional Quidditch game?’

            Potter smiled and shook his head wistfully. ‘I heard ‘em on the wireless a few times, when I were at the Burrow. Only their wireless only works some of the time, so it wasn’t very often.’

            Draco nearly offered to take him to one, but stopped himself in the nick of time. _This was getting ridiculous_ , he thought. At the same time, they arrived at Potter’s door.

            ‘Thank you for the meal, Mister Malfoy,’ Potter said, voice all quiet. ‘Tell the house elves I said thank you as well.’

            Draco blinked. He had never thanked house elf for anything before. He figured that, growing up in the muggle world, there were certain things Potter would never fully understand. He nodded and smiled anyway. ‘Thank you for sharing it with me. You are an excellent meal partner.’

            Potter looked at the floor modestly. ‘As are you.’

            Draco swallowed. How was it that Potter could break him down so thoroughly with just a few soft words? ‘Breakfast is at seven o’clock tomorrow, in the dining room.’

            ‘Thank you,’

            ‘You are most welcome.’

            ‘Good night then, Mister Malfoy.’

            ‘Good night, Potter.’ Draco nearly added a ‘sweet dreams’, or something equally preposterous, but choked the words back in, settling for a friendly smile. Potter returned it, and then retreated into his room, gently shutting the door behind him. Draco stood there, before the dark length of wood, for several seconds, before finally peeling himself away and making walking toward his own chambers, cursing himself all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I missed last week. Whoops... Whether or not I'll be getting to fit another chapter in between this and next week's update completely depends on me and whether or not I can get it together enough to finish summer work and do weekend plans and start school next week and write... and on my beta, MichyDrarryShipper, who I cannot thank enough for betaing extremely quickly so I can be the procrastinator that I am :)


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